


Souls in Limbo

by MrMissMrsRandom



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Bonding over Dragon Possession, Gen, My piece for TWR Zine Vol. 3, Spoilers for both Shadows of Valentia and Genealogy of the Holy War, These two seem really different but they share a lot of similar character beats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 06:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13184490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrMissMrsRandom/pseuds/MrMissMrsRandom
Summary: When Celica finds herself at her lowest point, she does not expect to find someone there to greet her.





	Souls in Limbo

Celica finds herself standing alone in a field, and terrified. The last thing she remembers is Jedah’s laughter ringing in her ears and a large, unblinking eye coming closer and closer as she tried to struggle free from its pull. Her knees buckle, bracing for an impact that has not happened. Taking a moment to gather her bearing, she looks up, half expecting to find Duma’s eye still upon her, only to find a vast blue sky stretches out above. It was a color she had seen very little of since she stepped into Rigel, and even the Sage’s Hamlet’s greenery wasn’t as vibrant as the tall grass that tickled her finger tips. The sensation leads her to inspect her hands- clothed in her gloves, same as always. Tentatively, she lifts her right hand for inspection, peeling the glove back to find that, yes, her birthmark- the Brand- is still there. Celica takes a step forward, peering down to inspect her boots, no longer covered in a familiar swamp mire.

Wherever Celica is, she knows it couldn’t be Rigel. Where is she then? 

She turns around, doing a full spin to try and find anything that looks to be civilization of some kind. Most of what she sees are more fields, an endless ocean of grass. However, one direction shows something in the distance. It appears to be a collection of tall buildings: a town, or perhaps even a castle. 

“Perhaps I’ll find someone there.” she whispers, disconcerted by how much her voice travels in such an open space. She walks through the grasses, eventually finding the remnants of a road that she decides to walk on instead, her footsteps echoing along the worn stone. As Celica travels closer, the buildings, to her dismay, are in a similar state of disuse. Standing at the end of the road was nothing but ruins. The architecture was different from what she had seen in Zofia, which focused on voluptuous designs and murals for its castles and manses. The buildings here were crafted of gray stone, with parts covered in climbing vines and moss. There was a crumbling tower in what Celica assumed was the town center. She thinks the spiraling mass would have reached the stars in its prime, but now what remained standing looked too dangerous to traverse. She presses her palm against a sunned part of the wall, surprised at how cool the stone was, even on such a bright day. 

“Strange…” but further musings are interrupted by a new, unexpected sound. Music, and how easily the tune carries must mean the player is not far off. 

Celica decides to follow the sound, gingerly walking along the rounded wall of the tower until she sees a man, sitting on a piece of broken stone a few hands away, playing a small fife. He looks older than her, but not by much, maybe closer to Conrad’s age. Conrad… what kind of expression was on her brother’s face when Jedah warped him and the rest of her friends away. Are they safe, or had she put even more people in danger besides herself? These racing thoughts put a tremor in her step, and she stumbles to keep her balance, making enough noise to halt the fife’s tune.

The man looks up and meets her gaze, eyes bright green like his hair. The latter is held back by a long strap of decorated cloth, adorned with a white feather. His coloring reminds her of Alm, but little else about the man did. His clothes are quite different from the designs she has seen in Valentia. 

“Well, what a surprise. Not used to having company here.” Despite his words, the man doesn’t look particularly shocked. His posture is relaxed, and he gives her an easy grin. He puts the instrument down and ushers her to approach. 

Celica places a hand of her sword to draw for defense, only to find that it isn’t there. Celica looks down, her face going pale. “But, how did…?” 

The man’s eyebrow raises at her fumbling. “Looking for something?”

“...My apologies, but there used to be a sword attached here.” she replies carefully, hoping he doesn’t take her words meaning that she wants to fight. Surprising, how cautious she now is of strangers. 

Yet the man is nonplussed, whether by the loss of the weapon or implied threat of it, Celica isn’t sure. “Yeah, I didn’t come with weapons either. Then again, there isn’t really any use for them here.” 

Celica frowns, clasping her hands in front of her instead. She will worry about the loss of Beloved Zofia later. “Excuse me, sir, but what do you mean? Where are we?” 

But the man waves off her questions with his hand. “It’ll take awhile to explain. For now, let’s start with some introductions. The name’s Lewyn, I’m a travelling bard from the kingdom of Silesse.” Lewyn places a hand on his chest and bows his head in greeting. “What of you, miss?”

“Then, is this Silesse?” 

Lewyn shakes his head. “Far from it. Silesse is a country in the mountains of Northern Jugdral. Its nearly always covered in snow. Nothing like this place.”

Celica grimaces further, confused with how relaxed the man seems around the ruins despite for all sense and purposes not belonging there either. “...My name is Celica. I’m a priestess in the Order of Mila, in the kingdom of Zofia. ” 

“Mila? Huh, haven’t heard that name before.” Lewyn rubs the back of his head. “Never heard of Zofia either.”

“To be honest, sir, I’ve never heard of your home either,” Celica sighs. “I don’t know how I came to be “here.” It it the same for you?”

Lewyn laughs again with that same easy going smile. “Hah, actually, how I came here is the only thing I’m sure of. I died.” 

Celica blanches at such a frank answer. “You… died?” 

He nods. “Yeah, guessing by how flabbergasted you look, it wasn’t the same for you?”

“No! Well, yes- I mean, I, oh no.” Celica groans, holding her head in her hands. If your soul is not in your body, does that mean you were dead, alive, or something in between? And… is she even in her body right now? Is this the place where witches went? “I’m not sure.” 

“Hey, don’t fret,” Lewyn assures her, still smiling, something that is starting to unnerve her. “It’s a lot to take in. Have a seat, I’ll tell you what I know.”

Celica remains cautious, but sits on a piece of stone in front of Lewyn. Once she looks comfortable, he begins to speak. 

“Like I said, the last thing I remember before coming here is dying, which is not a pleasurable experience, mind you. When I came to, I found myself in a field. The closest place to it was this, so I settled here.” The bard’s face grows more serious. “...Not long after that, I realized that this place wasn’t just another country, but a new… well, I never thought I’d explain it to anyone, but world, it might be called? One where no matter how many times I rolled in the grass my clothes were never dirtied, no matter how many hours seemed to pass I would never feel hunger or thirst. Save for the color of the sky, nothing in this place changes, along with anyone in it.”

Celica’s first instinct to this bleak explanation is to refute it. “That’s not possible. No place can be unchanging. Mother Mila provided Zofia with an endless bounty with her powers. Perhaps this is the work of something similar.”

Lewyn’s eyebrows raise, before he snorts. “You think this is the gods’ country? If that were the case, wouldn’t it be a little more, I don’t know, splendid or something? And if this is where the gods are supposed to be, where are they?”

“I never said this was the home of the gods.” Celica objects. It looks far too different from the dwellings of either god she knows of. Despite the decay of Duma Tower, there still remains a sense of power that she feels in every stone of it. Even the ruins, despite how grand they had probably once been, are also too different from the Temple of Mila. There is an absence of that power here. 

“Well you compared it to what your Mother or Mila or whatever could do.” Lewyn points out sharply, before realizing his tone, and raising his arms placant. “It was just an assumption. It’s not like anyone can tell us for sure what this place is. All I know is that there’s no way to get in or out of it.” 

“If what you say is true, then that’s… very troubling.” Celica answers. She had been willing to give her life for the good of Valentia, but she never thought once what would happen afterwards.

Lewyn shrugged, but Celica sees how withdrawn the bard’s face becomes. “Well, Lady Celica, it’s better not to dwell on it. Believe me. And look, I’m sure your Order had a bunch of hymns you sang for Mila, right?” He gestures to the fife in his hand. “Care to teach me a few?”

“I’m not a very good singer, if I’ll be honest.” Back at the priory, Sister Silque had been the best singer. Her voice held both strength and gentleness, and before Silque went on her own pilgrimage, she would finish morning prayer with a song. Celica tries to remember if she’d seen Silque among the faces in Alm’s army, if she had completed the quest Celica selfishly entrusted to her, but all she can remember is the look of agony on Alm’s face. 

Lewyn’s voice breaks her free of her thoughts. “Don’t need any lyrics if that’s tough, just hum it. I’ll pick it up all the same.” 

Celica blinks, but then smiles. Despite only knowing her for a few minutes, perhaps the bard can tell how distraught her thoughts are. She began to hum. After she goes through the song twice, Lewyn joins in on the fife. Celica closes her eyes, imagining the waves break along the bluffs of Novis. 

Once Lewyn is finished, he ushers her to hum a new one, and she does. She knows dozens of hymns that Nomah taught her in her studies to become a priestess, but she also hums the songs of fishermen that Mae and Boey taught her from their childhoods, the shanties she’d heard sailors whistle at port, the tavern songs Jesse would sing on nights their group needed some good cheer while walking through the Rigelian swamps. Before they know it, the sky grows dark and is littered with stars. Celica is surprised that despite the obvious passing of time, she does not feel hungry or tired. Lewyn had been right. 

Speaking of Lewyn, from what she can make out in the darkness, the bard had tucked the fife into his tunic and is making himself comfortable on the ground. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Hunkering down for the night. We don’t have any good light left, and I’ve already searched the stars here. Can’t find any familiar constellations, so no point stargazing. I’m going to sleep, which is something you can do here, at least.” 

“Oh, well then, good night, Lewyn,” Celica replies. “And thanks for playing for me.”

“Heh, all part of the job. Night, Lady Celica.” he says, closing eyes and resting his hands under his head. 

Despite Lewyn’s statement, Celica looks back up at the sky, searching for any familiar constellations. However, she has little luck. One time she thinks she saw the wing of Mila, but then it she lost it, and she feels too disheartened to make up her own constellations. That was a game she and Alm used to play with the others during her time at Ram Village. Part of her wishes she never had to leave that place, even though she had a wonderful home at the Priory.   
But she can’t, she cannot ever go back to those days, especially now. 

Despite there being no wind, Celica shivers, and clasps her arms around herself. She wishes she had a fire, some sort of light she can keep close to her to chase away the darkness of her thoughts. She looks down at her hands once more, and concentrates. Perhaps no solid weapons are allowed here, but maybe, just maybe-

A flicker of light dances along her fingers, erupting into a bright flame of fire. She can’t keep the grin from her face. So Mila’s magic hasn’t forsaken her in this new world. However, when she looks through the flames, she can see Lewyn’s eyes, wide and afraid, looking back at her. He is awake. Before she can say anything, the man has jumped up and backs away from her, stumbling in his hurry to get away. Her flame flickers out in an instant. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, confused with such a pronounced reaction.

“How, you- you’re using magic without a tome!” Lewyn sputters, pointing at her hands. “And… and its fire… the only people capable of that have Fjalar’s blood! That’s what the hell is wrong!”

Celica doesn’t like the accusations in Lewyn’s tone. She had only wanted some light is all. Her hands clenched into fists in her lap, but she confronts the bard head on, trying to keep her face placid and her thoughts cool.

“I have no knowledge of this Fjalar, nor do I understand your fear of my magic. In Valentia, the gods Mila and Duma gave their people direct access to their power, some have harnessed that into magical ability. Where I come from, no one uses a tome. Instead, I sacrifice some of my strength to have this power, but it returns once I’ve eaten or rested. I didn’t know if it would even work here, since we have been made to forsake our weapons by some outside force. I wanted to try.”

Her explanation seems to soothe Lewyn somewhat, as he creeps back slowly to his former resting place, only now he sits up. “Alright, just warn a guy before doing that.” 

Celica’s hands relax, smoothing out the front of her skirt. “I didn’t think you were awake. I’m sorry for frightening you, but… I was lonely, and I thought some light would help.” Celica is surprised she admits her reasons so easily. Something that was so hard for her to do back in Valentia. Maybe how scared Lewyn had been made Celica more open. She doesn’t know if she could stay in this empty world alone without going mad, and it would be a grim sentence to scare off her only means of companionship. 

“Is that right,” Lewyn sighs, before standing back up, wandering around the camp and picking up stray bits of wood. Celica is about to ask what he’s doing before Lewyn dumps a small pile in the clear space between them. “I think I’ll be fine with it if it’s kept in a way I’m used to, sound fair?”

Celica blinks at the pile, and nods. “Fair.”

Her fingers ignite once more, but only to provide a spark necessary to start the fire, and extinguish in her hand once the wood is lit. A calming crackle emits from the fire as the sticks burn. Celica places her hands close to to the flame to feel their warmth, but Lewyn is far enough away that his face remains hidden in shadow. Celica waits a little while until the bard moves closer, mouth tensed in a frown and leaning back, but now at least is within the light. Celica decides he is calm enough for her to ask questions. “Are you afraid of fire?”

“...I didn’t use to be.” Lewyn replies, and Celica’s eyebrows wrinkle at the guarded answer. 

“It would be better to be honest about our likes and dislikes henceforward.”

“Well it’s been a damn long time since I had to worry about sharing my feelings.” Lewyn snaps in a way she thought uncharacteristic of him, then sighs again, reaching into his robes for the fife, grasping it tightly. After a few more moments of this, he speaks again. “I was killed by fire. A lot of fire. Me and most of my friends, in fact.” 

Celica takes a moment to process the information as a chill runs down her spine, one that can’t be quelled by the flames. “I’m so sorry that I brought up bad memories.” 

But Lewyn shakes his head. “You didn’t know. But, it was a bunch of fire mages that did it, and their leader was someone who had Fjalar blood. When I saw the fire and the color of your hair… I think that memory just came back to me all at once.” 

Celica rubs her right hand. “Is… was Fjalar your god?” 

“Hah, no. Well, I guess it would be complicated to explain, but maybe it’ll help take the edge off to play my other role as a bard.” So Lewyn began a story of gods, evil empires, blood pacts and holy brands that was the birth of Jugdral’s Twelve Crusaders. Celica feels herself enchanted with it, recalling the stories she had read when she was a child of the war between Mila and Duma. However, in those, none of the human heroes were named and given glory, save for the sibling gods’ chosen champions. One such champion being her own ancestor. Those thoughts cause something in her mind to click. 

“If the gods that gave the crusaders their weapons, were they dragons?” Celica inquires.

Lewyn’s eyes widen at what he probably thinks is an outlandish question. “What makes you say that?”

Celica starts her own tale. “Mila and Duma were divine dragons, and used their powers to lead the people of Valentia. Mila helped found Zofia, Duma, in turn, did so with Rigel. It sounds a lot like how the crusaders went their separate ways and founded their own nations after defeating Galle the Seventeenth.”

“...Celica, how did you come here again? You didn’t give me a straight answer before.” Is Lewyn’s response, throwing Celica for a loop.

“What does that have to do with my question?” 

“Maybe everything,” Lewyn remarks pensively. “And you said we needed to be honest with each other, so your turn now.” 

Celica’s shoulders slumps forward. All her memories of Duma Tower come flooding back. Conrad and Saber’s cries for her to stop, Mae and Boey’s faces marred by her betrayal, Alm’s tears as they try to hold each other through the bars between them one last time. “I gave my soul to Duma.” 

“You… what?” Lewyn scowls, unconvinced. “That’s impossible. I might be dead, but I’m not that stupid. How can you give something like your soul? It’s not like a piece of bread. It isn’t physical.”

Celica wonders glumly why Lewyn had decided now to be a realist, but carries on. “It actually sounds like a similar process to what the crusaders did. In Rigel… though I suppose at this point I wouldn’t put it past Mila either, to gain more power from Duma, people would sacrifice anything to obtain it. Among them is a group of women that are called Witches, whose souls were given to Duma. Whether of their own accord or by force, it’s hard to say. All that’s left of them is a body, to become a puppet as one sees fit.”

“And you decided to become one of those things?” Lewyn exclaims. “And why would you give up your soul willingly to Duma? I thought you followed Mila or whatever.” 

It wasn’t willingly in the end, but she continues her explanation. “Mila and Duma are dying, and Mila has already passed. I thought giving my soul would save Valentia’s people. We couldn’t survive if we didn’t have the gods to guide us. I didn’t have a choice!” 

“But you did!” The bard stands up. “You had a choice to live! To fight, make a better place for you people by your own hands and you squandered it!”

“You don’t have any right to judge me!” Celica’s voice raises, his words sound too much like something Alm would say, and that made it all the worse. She stares down at her hands, avoiding Lewyn’s green hair and green eyes. The only way she can respond is to lash out, just like back at Zofia castle with Alm. She could never learn, could she? “If you’re so perfect, how come you’re here in this purgatory too?” 

“I don’t know!” Lewyn yells. “The last things I can remember are the fire and-and…”

Their campsite falls silent for a minute. Celica hears a loud thump, and brings her face up to find Lewyn has slumped back to the ground, his expression haunted. 

“...Lewyn?”   
“I have… had a wife, Celica.” 

“Are you worried she’s here too?” Celica asked, but Lewyn lets out a high-pitched laugh at her question.

“No, she’s far too good to ever end up somewhere like this. But, when I died, she was pregnant with our first child. I never got to see them born, at least I thought so. But now, memories of them being born are flooding back to me, and of us having a second child afterwards, of being… happy, at least for a little while. I remember other children’s faces, of children I knew before, now full grown and going to war in place of their mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles, and me with them. A war, another war…”

His hands cover his eyes, as if to block out the firelight, continuing to talk. “It’s coming back, and it feels so real, but me dying still feels so real, too. How is that possible?” 

It appears she isn’t the only one plagued by memories. Celica thinks back to witches, Duma’s eye, Mila’s powers, and rubs her right hand again. “The gods… in your country, did they still dwell among you?” Celica asks.

Lewyn raised his head and gives her a look, but she urges for him to answer. 

“It could be the reason why you’re here, please, Lewyn.” 

“Not in flesh like yours. The Crusader’s descendents, however, inherited their power, and usually there’s one person every generation that inherits the ability to wield a holy weapon, if they have a special birthmark.” 

“A brand,” Celica replies softly, and undoes her right glove, bringing her hand into the light. “Something like this?” 

Lewyn’s eyes widen. He moves forward, getting a closer look. “...Yeah, just like that.”

“I think this is a sign of some kind of dragon blood, or at least of their power. I don’t know its exact properties, but based on how fervently the Duma Faithful searched for me and how Jugdral’s holy blood works, it could mean a part of the gods’ power… dwells in me.”

Lewyn glances up from her hand to Liprica’s circlet, and appears to have put two and two together. “Priestess, you’re not really a Priestess are you?”

“...No. And Bard, you are not truly a Bard?”   
Lewyn’s back goes straight, and he rolls up his left sleeve, before bringing his arm into the light. A birthmark, different in shape from hers or Alm’s, but looking like a patch of razed earth across his otherwise pale forearm.

“Wow. This is a lot to take in.” Lewyn understates. 

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Celica agrees, putting her glove back on and Lewyn yanks down his sleeve. “I believe that this brand is a bit different from yours, but it might be the reason why one of your gods… chose you.”

“To inhabit my body.” Lewyn finishes grimly. “But… I’m still here, yet I have memories after my death. How could, Forseti- well, I’m just assuming it’s him at this point, but how could he take over my body like that?”

Celica continues on her hypothesis. “It might be a hunch, but… maybe Witches aren’t as soulless as people believe. Parts of their souls are still there, just… unable to act. Maybe the souls can still see what happens, and lingering feelings of their past can drive them forward.” 

“So our actual bodies are puppets to Duma and Forseti, trying to do things.” 

“Exactly. Though, if I’m honest, Forseti’s reasons seem more honorable. Maybe he found a way to stave off the dragon’s madness, unlike Duma.” 

“That doesn’t make me feel better, Celica.” Lewyn groans. “A dragon god hijacked my body and kept going on pretending he’s me, that’s… so violating. If I knew taking the Forseti tome could lead to this, I never would have touched the thing.” 

Celica doesn’t say it, but she’s beginning to agree with Lewyn’s sentiment. Her entire pilgrimage has become a crisis of faith for her, the farther she went from Novis. She’d thought she understood evil in the world, after the horrors inflicted on her family and friends by Desaix, of the horrors King Lima inflicted on her mother. Yet it’s only until now that she realized the full measure of a god’s power could inflict harm on humans, for good or ill. Maybe Mila allowing herself to be sealed by the Falchion was one last mercy she gave her children, rather than abandoning them. 

“I think I finally see Alm’s side.” Celica murmurs, loud enough for Lewyn to catch it.

“Who’s Alm?” 

“A boy, from a place called Ram Village that I met when I was a child.” Celica smiles. “Though we were only together for a short time, we both felt a strong… affinity to each other. He had a brand on his left hand, mirroring the one on my right. Part of the reason I allowed myself to be sacrificed was for him and all of my friends, for my people. He’s fighting a war, and I was so scared he would die, or become someone horrible, so much that I lead myself to believe sacrificing myself would be able to make things right.”

Lewyn sighs. “I think we’re more alike than I first thought.” 

Celica waits for Lewyn to continue, and soon he does. “So, I’m actually a prince, but after my dad died, my uncles wanted to control Silesse as the next in line. I thought I could stop a civil war from happening if I left, started a new life far away. But it didn’t work, in fact, I just made it worse by leaving.” 

“You tried to do what you thought was right.” Celica assures him. Lewyn’s mouth tightens. 

“Maybe so, yet it still had a negative impact on my people and on my family, but that’s beside the point I’m trying to make.” He takes a deep breath, his eyes darting back and forth, looking like he’s trying to search for the right words before starting to speak again. “What I’m trying to say is that both of us have made big mistakes, but we tried to do the best we could with the cards we were dealt. Does that make sense?” 

“I’m not sure.” Celica shakes her head, unable to give a straight answer. 

“What, even after all those epiphanies you just blurted out you’re questioning my train of thought?” Lewyn replies, though his tone is more teasing than cruel.

“It’s hard to forgive myself.” Celica admits. “I didn’t let my friends know what I was planning until it was already too late. I made the choice without thinking through all the potential consequences.” 

Lewyn gets onto his feet, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving it a small squeeze. “You don’t have to try it all at once, and you don’t have to listen to me. I’m not exactly the picture of a well-adjusted soul, either. But forgiveness is more productive than wallowing in self-hatred. Just start.” 

Celica nods, and Lewyn removes his hand. The touch is cool, and despite the squeeze, she can hardly feel the pressure. Perhaps that’s how her hands would feel as well. “Thank you, Lewyn. Is that your real name, by the way?”

Lewyn rubs his neck, embarrassed. “Yeah, well, it is Lewyn. I tried to go by some aliases, but nothing ever fit. My mom did too well naming me, so I figured a name wouldn’t be enough to recognize me in another country if I didn’t run into anyone I knew.”

“Yes, thought we’ve really just met, I don’t see you going by anything else,” Celica covers her mouth to hold back a laugh. “Then I should tell you mine. My true name is Anthiese, Princess Anthiese of Zofia. I’ve gone by Celica since I was very young, though, and most of my friends still call me it. You are welcome to do the same.” 

“So that means we’re friends now?” Lewyn smiles. “Huh, it’s been awhile since I made a new friend. I accept.”

“Good.” Celica smiles back, until she suddenly hears the sound of a sword unsheathing in her ears. A sound she never thought she would hear again. After that comes voices, one hateful and one beloved.

“Celica, what’s wrong?” 

“Alm, it’s Alm! I can hear him!” Celica exclaims, images now appearing in her mind’s eye. She can see the innards of Duma Tower, of Alm, his sword drawn and face shocked, and then she can see Jedah cackling off the side. “No, no!” 

She screams, and with all her might launches herself forward, only to be yanked back from falling into the flames by Lewyn. She can see the flames and Alm, mixing together all at once. Her body is a puppet that Jedah had set on Alm, and she can not allow it. She refuses.

“Kill me! Kill me, Alm, please!” tears falling down Celica’s face as she feels her limbs parry an attack, while also held back by Lewyn’s own phantom arms. “Kill me!” 

But before she can say anything else, the image disappears, and another voice came into her ears, one both strange yet familiar. Lewyn seems to hear it as well, looking up to find that a tear of light has cut through the night sky above them, opening up.

“Release her, young man, trust me!” Mila’s voice rang through the world. 

“Mila, what’s happening?!” Celica yells, feeling her body being lifted from the ground, but Lewyn holds on, keeping her earthbound.   
“Haven’t you done enough damage, lady?!” Lewyn roars back. “You’re just going to keep using her after what your brother did to her?” 

“I don’t have time for this! If you want both Celica and the boy to be saved, let go!” 

Celica feels something run through her stomach, hard, but Lewyn’s arms are still wrapped around her shoulders, yet she can see the blood staining her robes. Too much, it’s too much. She is going to die. 

“Celica, Celica, look at me.” She can’t tell who was calling her name, whether it was Lewyn or Alm, but she looks up at a pair of green eyes, who has arms that hold her gently. “...I’m going to trust that you can make it. Not some gods, but you. I believe in you.”

“Lewyn…” she rasps, before the hands release her, and then she is floating in space, in a sea of stars, towards the light. 

For many moments after Celica and the voice disappear, Lewyn remains staring up at where the tear had been. He wonders if his own god will come for him like that, someday. Finally, he looks back down to find the firelight was beginning to dim. He chucks another piece of wood onto the flame, and it raises back up. For the first time in a long, long time, he enjoys watching it crackle and alight. After that, he takes out his fife, and begins his song once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to Dameceles for giving me the chance to explore the potential interactions these two could have! Please check out @togetherweridefanzine on tumblr or @TWRzine on twitter for a chance to order the zine and see all the wonderful art included in volume and previous volumes.


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